If you say it out loud — “I just moved into my new house” — it sounds like moving is a finite event, but that simply isn”t true.

Moving is not an event. It is a lifestyle.

Shifting one”s life, domestic critters and belongings from one domicile to another is not a thing that happens on one given Saturday and is over.

Over the last 18 months — after 23 years in the same place — my dear bride, the saintly Susan, and I have moved twice.

Susan, as an example of her exceptional wit, intelligence and good planning, took off for South America as move one was getting under way.

It seems she managed to be among the missing for the first stages of move two as well, but I have a hunch her memory differs on that one.

Be that as it may, moving is not a thing.

It is an ongoing trial by ordeal. Like being sent up the river, this sentence is for an indeterminate period, but you don”t get time off for good behavior.

There does come a day when the big things — the bed, the piano, the couch and the cat condo Susan made for our felines out of scrap lumber and carpet fragments — are all in place.

It gives the mover the false sense of accomplishment and the hopelessly optimistic impression the job is done, but then there are THE BOXES!

Our first adventure in moving took us from our home of 22 years, that included a large barn and therefore a big bunch of storage space, to a pleasant if small home with no barn.

By way of translation that meant we had a whole bunch of stuff without a place to put it. Enter the storage unit.

I rented one of these surrogate garages, which I promptly filled to the rafters with things that were clearly way too valuable to throw away.

For most of a year these boxes of treasures sat, patiently waiting for my return.

Now, we have finished phase one of the ongoing water torture that is move two, and the time has come to transplant my glorious collection of cherished keepsakes. The problem is, I can no longer find them.

Oh, I can find the storage locker and the boxes I put in the locker are still there, but for the life of me I can”t imagine why I kept most of this junk.

I have boxes — many, many boxes — filled with bad movies that I videotaped off the television. These are videotapes that I never watched in all the years they crowded an ancient entertainment center, that migrated to the landfill itself a long time ago.

I kept a pair of desks that no self-respecting junk shop would allow on the premises.

There are things in there worth keeping –?my mother”s silver set, my dad”s oak desk — but to reach those I have to claw through a pile of what can only be described as debris.

So now I face another extended filtering process, where I will try to separate the trash from the treasures one more time.

My success in the last round leaves me with little hope that I will do any better this time. Part of the problem, and I freely acknowledge this, is I am an dedicated pack rat. Once I get my hands on something — almost any something — I find myself saying, “Someday I”m going to need this again.”

The fact that no person — living or dead — could possibly come up with a shred of rational proof that anybody would want this particular item again has no bearing on my alleged thinking.

Having said that, I suspect I will continue the tortuous process of moving — and occasionally throwing away something — for years yet to come.

I also suspect that when the day comes that I find myself pushing up daisies, my widgets will be faced with the chore of sorting through what is left in the storage locker. Without much effort I can hear then asking, “Why did Dad keep this garbage?”

To which I would have to answer, “I don”t have a clue.”

Roger H. Aylworth is a staff writer with the Enterprise-Record. His column appears every Sunday, and he can be reached by e-mail at raylworth@chicoer.com.